


The Theory of Lost Things

by Malapropian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Blasphemy, Dubious Morality, Food, M/M, Magical Realism, Manipulation, References to Child Abuse, References to Christianity, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season 6 Divergent, Unreliable Narrator, Wild Hunt (Teen Wolf), canon Claudia Stilinski, regional gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8540647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: Alone and forgotten, Stiles makes a deal: one favor in exchange for Peter's help.-Marked complete, but new outtake chapters will still appear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of plans to write a different fic with the "X character is removed from memory and reality because of magic" trope. Then season 6 was announced, and I knew that I had to finish something before the premiere.
> 
> I've been reading a lot of Southern/Regional Gothic and poetry, so this is what happened. Many thanks to Pibroch, Jo, TriDom, Mia, Cannibalinc, Ara, and Vohnemet for the pre-reading, validation, and tag help. Extra thanks to Pib for surprising me with the banner tonight. <3
> 
>  
> 
> **Expanded warnings in the end notes.**

  
  


 

The radio reports an earthquake. The rumbles are tiny, infinitesimal. Beacon Hills continues with its day. No one notices.

The radio emits the whine of an amber alert. Local news anchors say that police are looking for a boy, almost a man really, but they call him a child. _147 pounds. 5’10”. Brown hair and eyes. Last seen on foot. Have you seen him?_

The next day, there is no update on the story. There is no boy. Nobody remembers his name.

 

* * *

 

Peter is burning and dying. He is falling and flying. He likes it best when he’s killing in the name, the name of family and vengeance and simple satisfaction.

He wakes up with red in his eyes and a countdown in his mind.

There’s a boy on a field, kneeling and desperate, beside Peter’s contingency plan. _Don’t kill her, please._ Here is one who acknowledges Peter as an alpha, as a god, one with power over life and death.

Peter can be a generous god. He was then, and he can be one now—now when Stiles is another of the forgotten, callously erased from reality by the Wild Hunt.

“What do you think I can do for you, Stiles? We don’t exist.”

 _Come closer. Get angry. Take what you want, and in taking give me everything._ Stiles stinks of fear and sweat and old blood. When the boy grabs him by the collar with filthy hands, Peter hides his triumph.

“Because you’re Peter Hale. You and your stupid plans. Your backup plans have backup plans, and you’re going to help me now.” Stiles’ teeth gleam in the dim light of Peter’s stolen living room.

“Why should I help, Stiles? I’ve done well for myself in this brave new world. Of course you want your friends to remember. You want daddy dearest to take you back into his bosom. I’m sure it’ll be a touching reunion. But me? I help you, and they remember all of my past indiscretions. And that’s a problem. That ruins my cozy new life where no one knows who I was. _So what do I get out of this?_ ”

Peter smiles. He basks in the sharp ebb and flow of despair, the rage that rushes back in, lighting up every part of Stiles. He knows what Stiles will choose as, once more, Peter plays the serpent and the fruit, tempter and temptation. He waits, patient through the jittering and shaking, the way clenching hands grind dirt into cotton fiber.

Stiles glares down, into Peter’s eyes. It’s thrilling to watch him tamp down disgust and rebellion into acquiescence, but it’s nothing less than Peter expects from one so like him.

“I’ll owe you one,” he grates out, a hint of the Gabriel Ratchets in his voice. “Just one, so you’d better make it good.”

And what has Stiles been doing to carry an echo of the Wild Hunt in his voice?

“I always make it worth my while.” Always. Even burning, even dying, even Valack. Peter takes whatever portion he can cheat his way into. He finds a way back to the top and damns anyone who stands in his way.

“And that’s it?” Stiles asks, plainly suspicious. “I’ll owe you a favor, and you’ll help me find a way for them to remember, to stop the Wild Hunt?”

“That’s it,” Peter confirms.

“Fine. Good.”

Stiles lets go of Peter’s collar. He straightens his back in small, jerky movements and stomps to the master bedroom. A few minutes later, all Peter can hear is the groan of pipes and the rush of water.

Peter picks up his laptop and returns to his research.

Stiles is right about one thing. Peter always has a plan with contingency upon contingency, and this one is playing out exactly as Peter wants. He’ll collect one favor in exchange for this first step onto the slope. Such a small price for Stiles to pay to have the world at his feet.

 

* * *

 

Peter Hale would choose to squat in a monochromatic hellscape. Each room is all in whites or blacks like a checkerboard explosion. Stiles spends most of his time in the kitchen, so he can avoid Peter’s constant scrutiny. The pristine white and chrome reminds him of being trapped in his own head.

_When is a door not a door?_

The steadily dripping faucet is the only thing marring the modern masterpiece that is the kitchen. Easily fixable with the right tools, but the sound helps him focus.

Each night, he lies down on the couch because he won’t share the one bed with Peter. The leather is soft with age, but it still creaks when he shifts. He counts the cracks in the ceiling whenever he thinks about stretching his legs.

Stiles can probably fix those too. He won’t yet. Not until he doesn’t need them to fall asleep.

It’s been three days, but the most surprising thing about living with Peter is the silence. He sits on the couch with his laptop or with a book. He slips out, in the mornings, jacket reversed and iron in his pockets, to return with a pint of fresh strawberries and several newspapers. He rarely speaks with Stiles except to to share information about the huntsmen.

For once, Peter deigns to sit with Stiles at the table.

“You smell like you’re detoxing,” Peter comments idly. He doesn’t look up from the paper. “Do I need to visit a pharmacy?”

Stiles shivers as Peter bites into a strawberry. Red juice runs from the corner of his mouth before he licks it away.

“No. I’m fine. I’ve been spacing out my pills. You know, winter is coming and all that.”

“Right,” Peter drawls. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Peter drags another one through his saucer full of sugar. His teeth slice neatly through the flesh, under the leafy tops. Stiles is captivated. The fruit is the dark red of strawberries at the pinnacle of ripeness, a breath away from tumbling into fermentation. The juice splashes on the white granules. It spreads in irregular blobs, vivid and bright. The white lights reflect on the liquid. It shifts into darkest red. The crimson of blood in the moonlight. Killing Donovan. His friends dying or hurt. Blood on his hands. Blood everywhere—Stiles blinks.

Reality snaps back into place. The sticky droplets are dark pink once more. He’s sitting with Peter, close enough to smell the waft of his expensive cologne.

If Peter puts his stained lips on Stiles, will he taste like summer or blood?

“Would you like one, Stiles?” Peter holds out a perfect strawberry, the color dulled by its coating of sugar.

Stiles loves strawberries. They’re one of his favorite fruits. He treasures the memories of his parents taking him to farms to pick their own, back before the drought. Now the farms are dust. The dying countryside is full of signs, all of them begging: _Pray for rain._

In this moment, he’s sure that even those farm strawberries can’t compare to the one in Peter’s hand.

“Take it, Stiles,” Peter offers again. “You look hungry.”

Without thinking, Stiles reaches for it. His fingers brush the wet grains. They feel like sand at the beach. The spell breaks.

“No, uh. I—I don’t like strawberries,” Stiles stammers. “Sorry. We’ll talk later. About the Wild Hunt.”

Stiles flees to the living room. He licks sugar from his fingers and counts the ceiling cracks.

 

* * *

 

On silent feet, Peter slips into the living room. He delights in discovering the dark and the furtive, so he watches—eager to see what his new project will reveal.

Even unconscious, Stiles can’t be quiet. The leather sofa creaks when he twitches and turns, chasing rabbits. And just like the pup he brings to mind, he will whine, cringing away from invisible blows.

He kicks and slides. Slips off the couch more nights than not.

 _Tomorrow_ , Peter decides. _Tomorrow I won’t take no for an answer._

 

* * *

 

Sumida’s Fine Books is still in business. It will take more than a Wild Hunt or the apocalypse for it to shut down. The shabby facade keeps away anyone who doesn’t know the secret. If anyone looks through the grimy windows, all they see is a squalid one-room shop. A few battered shelves sag under the weight of damaged hardbacks. The air of sad decay permeates the building, keeping away curiosity-seekers and the uninitiated.

More than one person has fled the premises—driven to unexplainable tears.

The owner has known Peter since he was a small boy. Every time Peter steps inside, Taka calls him to the register. Taka asks about his health, shows Peter the special books he’s kept back for him, offers hot tea or one of the small sweet bean cakes hidden with the unsorted stock.

Today, when the bell rings, Taka looks up and nods. In the gruff voice intended for strangers, he says, “Irasshaimase.”

He ignores Peter and Stiles.

While Stiles investigates the Law and Philosophy sections, Peter stands between Gardening and European History. A prickle of unease slides up his spine an instant before Taka tugs his jacket seams.

Peter hears the scowl in Taka’s voice when he says, “The fae are looking for you. What have I done that you bring them to my door?”

“They won’t notice. How did you?” Peter smiles, frosty and polite. _Remember me, damn you._

“I’m old, not stupid.” He laughs, dry as dust. “You and the boy wear your coats backwards and look for answers in my shop. I can’t help you, invisible man.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Peter’s blood heats. He wants to throttle his old friend, this new stranger. He wants to walk in the sun and be seen. He wants freedom and power and Stiles. _He wants. He wants. He wants._ So much more than his mother and sister had approved.

Rheumy eyes gaze back without pity. “I think we were friends before, so this you may have for free. Take the books. Take your friend. Leave Beacon Hills before you draw their eyes again.”

“You could help me, Taka.” Peter steps closer, drops his pride, and pleads. “You’ve known me since I was a child. You taught me my first magic. Please, Taka-san.”

Taka draws himself up to his full height, level with Peter’s shoulder. A bony finger pokes Peter in the chest. His face set with righteous anger. “You say you know me. So hear me when I say this. You are nameless, forgotten.” Taka shoves him down the narrow aisle, towards the door. “I don’t know you. I don’t see you. I can’t help you. No one can.”

All around them, lamps swing. The lights dim. Mirage-like, the furniture wavers and shimmers. Vanillin and old ink melt into moldy leather and mouse droppings.

Peter takes his time. He gathers the last of the books he can see and takes the ones that appear on the counter. A last gift from a not-friend to a doomed man.

Taka Sumida is nowhere to be seen.

He meets Stiles outside, on the broken sidewalk. Together they blink under the relentless sun and watch the building flicker and fade. They get in the car and drive.

In the rearview mirror, Sumida’s Fine Books stands, derelict and empty. A faded sign rattles on the door, declaring _For Sale By Owner._

 

* * *

 

_Son, are you okay?_

Stiles runs. He runs until he can’t breathe. He can’t feel the stitch in his side.

_Slow down. Slow down._

He can’t slow down. He has to get back home. But not the one he shares with his dad, the one filled with memories of their life. Does it still count as their life when Stiles is the only one who’s lived it?

_Now why don’t you tell me your name?_

Stiles staggers against the door. He fumbles with the key, scraping at the lock. He wonders why it won’t fit until the teeth dig into his skin. He knows that pattern like he knows his house, his dad, the rumble of the sheriff’s patrol car. This isn’t the key to Peter’s house. It’s the key to his dad’s house— _Stiles’ house_.

No, not his house. It can’t be his house anymore because he doesn’t exist. The only place Stiles exists is here: with Peter, the last person who knows him.

“Shh. Come here, Stiles.” Warm hands pull him inside. They’re familiar. Since the bookstore debacle, Peter’s always pressing short, casual touches on him.

He’s crying. He can’t breathe. Everything is so mixed-up and wrong. The hands pull at his clothes and shoes, removing fabric as they go. He wears more than this when they sleep, but Peter leaves him in his boxers, a short slip of the hands away from naked. Is this when Peter takes his favor? When Stiles is a hairsbreadth from panic and covered in snot?

Whatever. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. His body for his life back. It’s not a huge price to pay.

Behind him, Peter sighs. He holds him carefully, so delicately, like Stiles will break under too much pressure. “That’s not what I want from you, Stiles.”

Stiles sobs and chokes on his mucus. “Okay.”

“I have grander plans for my favor than this.”

“Right. Of course.” Stiles dissolves into hysterical laughter. Of course, Peter wants something else. Something better. Stiles is just a sad, empty boy that no one can keep in their heads. It doesn’t even take magic to forget him.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Peter asks the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles tenses. Something in him has always been so aware of Peter. His fear and defiance of Peter, the alpha. Peter’s claws under his chin. Peter’s breath on his wrist. On and on, it goes. Every interaction with Peter expands. He takes over every memory, turns into a being larger than life.

When he looks back on this, Stiles doesn’t know what he’ll see, so he closes his eyes. He covers his face and explains, “I woke up, and everything felt so normal. I don’t know. I walked outside, and it was so fucking normal. The sun was shining. I know. It’s always shining, but it felt like a sign. Like I could go home and everything would be okay.”

“And then what?” Peter pets his hair. He doesn’t say anything more. Not about Stiles being stupid and thoughtless. Not the fact that Stiles had promised not to go to his old haunts or see his dad. Or even how the unwashed product is oily and crunchy and disgusting. Peter just pets him. It’s comforting. It’s nothing like his mom or dad or Melissa.

“And then I used my key and stood in my empty room until I couldn’t take it. This time I got a chance to check the attic. But I stayed out too long. Went to the school after hours, looking for… something. I don’t know.” Stiles shrugs. “My dad saw me. It was the first time we talked. Since everything happened.”

Peter doesn’t break the silence when it goes too long. He can probably fill in the blanks, but Stiles continues, twists the knife again, feels it break off in his chest.

_Now why don’t you tell me your name?_

“He really didn’t know me. He looked right through me. I was just another kid in trouble to Sheriff Stilinski.” Just another kid in trouble. Just a ghost. But no, Stiles is less than a ghost. John has chased the dead and forgotten the living, has fallen so far down a bottle that the only thing he can touch is the ghost of his wife. What is Stiles to ever compare with that?

“And then you came here?” Stiles hears _to me_.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, numbness giving way to exhaustion. “I came straight home after that.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Nothing we didn’t know. They’re thorough. They take everything. I’m not even in pictures from years ago. My dad. _Everyone_ just looks straight through me now. Everyone except you.”

“We’ll find something, Stiles. I feel like we’re close to a breakthrough.”

Stiles stays quiet after Peter’s news. He lies down with Peter and falls asleep to the man petting him like he knows just where to find the last tender places that Stiles has. Like he knows and won’t hurt him.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Soon he’ll be back home. The sun will shine, and everything will be fine. It’s only been ten days of being a ghost with Peter Hale. They’ll fix this, and it will be Stiles’ turn to forget.

 

* * *

 

Every night ends like this.

Peter completes his ablutions and reads on top of the turned down comforter. A model of modesty in matching pajamas.

After the bang and clatter of his hygiene rituals, Stiles slides between the sheets. At first, he wears long sleeves and pants. As days pass, he trades them in for t-shirts and pants, then t-shirts and boxers. Now, the only barrier between them is his boxers.

They turn off the light. Stiles falls asleep, their only point of contact his elbow on Peter’s arm.

Peter is acutely aware of the Promised Land resting beside him, trusting that Peter has no interest in the currency of his body. Stiles is not altogether wrong.

The snatch and grab is so easy, so simple. If he wills it, Peter can pluck him from the vine, _warm and ripe_. Instead of mere imagination, there will be the flesh and the blood. _Bite down, swallow it whole._ Let the juices gush and overflow—for Stiles is a font of sweetness, living waters ready to quench, and Peter thirsts.

Every night, Peter lies there. He wants, and he waits, and he wants. It is an ache in his marrow, but he knows worse pain. He endures.

Stolen fruit may taste sweeter, but what is more pleasing than joyful faith and willing sacrifice?

 

* * *

 

“You had no right to do that without me!” Stiles’ outburst serves no purpose but spiteful satisfaction. It’s all sound and fury like the useless punches he throws against the unmoving surface of Peter’s chest. He swings again.

Peter catches it, cradles it in his hand like someone else would hold a baby bird. He strokes the knuckles tenderly enough that Stiles’ eyes sting with unshed tears. “You’ll hurt yourself like that.”

“Maybe I want to! I can’t believe you tailed them without letting me know.”

“I knew you’d want to come, and you can’t. We agreed. It’s best to stay away from your friends and family until we know more about the huntsmen.” He pauses. “Unless you were hoping to spice things up by dying?”

Everything Peter says makes awful, hateful sense. Rage courses through him, and there’s no good target. The guilty are out of reach, and Peter… Peter’s his only help. Peter can listen in from a distance. He’s the perfect spy. He’s right. Stiles would have been a hindrance.

That Peter’s decisions are justified cuts deeper than waking up alone, knowing he’s been left behind again.

“Hey. Don’t give me that face.” Peter lifts an eyebrow. “I did the job that suits my talents. You’re just as necessary for the plan. Of the two of us, who was erased for getting too close to the Wild Hunt?”

Stiles’ mouth twitches into a half-hearted smirk. “I was.”

“You were. Don’t forget that, Stiles. They may have erased me as a kinslayer and an oathbreaker, but you. Oh Stiles. They were _afraid_ of you. Rare is the man who can claim half that.”

“Damn right they were.”

“So we follow the plan.”

Torn, Stiles doesn’t answer. So they fear him, or he’s a nuisance. It’s a sop to his dignity, one he appreciates; but he needs to do something. They’ve been waiting for a month. He’s tired of letting creepy dudes on horses wreck his life and control his schedule.

“Stiles.”

“Fine.” He shrugs. “We’ll follow the plan. Let them come to us. Where we have the high ground.” He’ll let them come, and if he gives them a push, that’s not breaking his promise.

Much more time with Peter, and Stiles might start to think he cares.

 

* * *

 

A hero’s journey takes them from kingdom to desolation and back again. Every hero suffers trials and tribulations. Deprivation of the flesh and the spirit. If the hero’s quest is the hammer, then the wilderness serves as anvil. Thus, they are transformed, ready for their triumphant return.

Deep in the desert, there grows a flower of such virtue that men dare not speak its name.

For the power to break a curse, a boy and man traverse the burning expanse. They battle the dryness of sand, of wind, of arroyo. All around them, desert-dwellers scuttle and fly over cracked earth; they know nothing of the marvel that is their home.

Passing scorpions and spiders ignore the two, intent on their tasks. A rattlesnake fights a hawk encroaching on her nest. Vultures circle overhead, neutral observers in no rush for their next exploitative meal.

At moonrise, hidden flowers bloom. They draw down the light, suffusing their waxy petals with a soft glow. Whatever their virtue—it is not proof against the sickle or human need.

Hand in hand, the two heroes return to face a kingdom in peril.

 

* * *

 

“Fuckfuckfuck, Peter!” Stiles gasps and sobs when he comes. Fat tears run down his face unchecked. In sex and in life, Stiles remains untouched by inhibition, surrenders to raw sensation without artifice or false dignity.

He’s beautiful.

Peter pulls his mouth up, off of Stiles’ cockhead and smirks. He asks, “Was it good for you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, heaves sweating limbs until he’s wrapped around Peter. “Uh, yeah. You were here. If you can’t tell, then maybe you’re getting too old for this kind of thing.”

Peter rolls his eyes but gathers him closer, flips them so he covers Stiles’ lanky frame. Unashamed to be leaking sweat, tears, or semen, Stiles clings. He smiles, drifting in a half-doze. Transfixed by the tears rolling slowly down Stiles’ face, Peter uncurls his arm, extends his hand to catch them on his fingers.

He hesitates, hand stopped in mid-air inches from its destination.

This is the moment when Peter should say _I love you. You’re safe._ He wants to say it. Weave a sweet illusion for Stiles. Those five words are a happy sentiment that pales in comparison to every other lie he’s spoken. The words should come out as easy as breathing, but they shrivel in his mouth.

Rendered mute, Peter treads warily around a new concept. What truth can he offer if he tries? Unbidden, the words rise up as noxious gases, bubbling to the surface of his mind. _You’re mine. Nothing will take you. Not death. Not memory. Not time. Always mine._

Stiles raises his eyebrows, the question clear on his face.

Peter’s fingers close the gap, falling to rest on Stiles’ cheekbone. He shakes his head and hair falls across his eyes. “You looked so tired. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Stiles snorts. “Of course you’re not tired. When do you even sleep?”

 _I sleep. And I’ve slept. I’ve wasted six years._ “I’ll wake you up for your unbirthday cake. So close your eyes,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes and make a wish.”

Peter doesn’t believe in wishes. They’re for people who lack the power to exert their will on the world. And yet, pragmatism doesn’t trump human nature. Call it a dream or a goal, but one day Peter knows Stiles will tell him he loves their life together. He’s not miserable. He’s never been more alive.

One day, Peter will say _I love you_. Stiles will never hear the lie.

 

* * *

 

Sleeping in the same bed with Peter defies all of Stiles’ experiences and expectations.

His dad curls into a tight ball of dead weight, more immovable object or mountain to climb than comfort. Scott tosses and turns as much as Stiles. Malia clings and claws and bites.

Peter stays close but not too close. He turns on his side, wraps an arm around Stiles and sleeps. He lies beside Stiles, loose and easy and warm. The simple intimacy feels good. They’ve been sleeping together for thirty-four days, and Stiles is addicted.

_Let me in, Stiles._

The thing is that Peter doesn’t ask to be let into the deepest recesses of Stiles’ mind. He hovers, just outside the boundaries, wielding his impossible arrogance as a shield for all the soft vulnerabilities in Stiles’ psyche. _You’re the clever one aren’t you? We can do anything, Stiles. They’re afraid of you._ Peter’s supreme confidence and need for ownership comforts him, props him up in ways he’s never known he wanted.

Soon this will be over. Everyone will remember. The spell or curse will end. He’ll have his own bed in his own house. And oh god. What even happens to all the pictures? The records? Their stuff? Will reality write itself over again and give it back? What if Stiles never gets to see a picture of himself with his mom again. _His mom_ —

“Stiles.” Peter’s arm tightens around him. He turns them so Stiles can lay on his bare chest. “You were about to start hyperventilating.”

“I was just worried,” Stiles mumbles. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Tomorrow’s the day he gets his life back. It shouldn’t feel like losing.

 

* * *

 

Whatever their Riders are made of, the horses seem more flesh than spirit. Picking off the straggler and spooking it into the right direction is child’s play.

Stiles fulfills his role admirably, taunting the lone Rider, luring him to their leaf-covered circle. Clear Latin cuts through the sweltering night air. It should seal their prey inside the circle. It does seal him, but one arm remains outside the boundary. The huntsman whirls his wrist, gathering enough momentum to lash out at Stiles.

The first strike erases. How much worse is a second? Mind empty of thought, Peter leaps as the horse rears.

Blood spatters. Fae, eldritch, or human—it makes no difference. Bodies and their attendant parts are breakable, and the wrist is so terribly fragile.

Jagged, white bone gleams as hand and whip thud on the forest floor. Another precise slash and the horse shrieks in agony. Entrails slither and writhe in the dirt. The toppling horse rips several sections of intestines with its own weight, filling the air with the stench of offal. The Rider struggles, trapped under thrashing horse and steaming organs.

“My hand. My horse,” he gurgles, eyes wild with pain, with disbelief. Those of the Wild Hunt believe themselves invincible, untouchable by mere mortals, but Peter has shown this one the truth.

He is fire. He is vengeance. And this boy is his. Peter sneers down at the dead and dying; in the end, they prove to be a poor match for an alpha and his partner.

“You saved my life,” Stiles says. He shudders, shying away from Peter’s bloody hands. “You saved my life,” he repeats, eyes blank and unseeing. “Oh god, I fucked up.”

Peter stands still, offering his hand to Stiles’ prone figure. The clearing stinks of death and offal. The bravest of scavengers already lurk in the trees. None of that matters. His wait is almost over.

Blue-veined eyelids drop down. They cover Stiles’ dark eyes, shielding the emotions that chemosignals don’t lay bare to Peter’s senses. But he knows. _It’s time._

“I’ll do better next time,” Stiles promises. He grips Peter’s hands. He rests his cheek against them, a holy pilgrim at the end of his journey, marking himself with the sacrifice and coming before the throne.

“I owe you one.” He lets out a shuddering breath and sags into Peter. “More than one.”

 _No,_ Peter thinks. _You owe me everything, and I mean to collect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my weird, little story. This was mostly edited by me in a sleep deprived state, so please let me know if I missed any mistakes or if there are tags I should add. (And maybe let me know what you thought if you feel up to it.)
> 
>  
> 
> **Additional warnings:**
> 
>  
> 
> Their relationship isn't healthy, but your mileage may vary on how much that bothers you. 
> 
> The animal death is in the last scene. The act of violence isn't incredibly graphic, but I'm told some of the descriptions were disturbing/upsetting. My WIP notes said "there are intestines and stuff", but again, ymmv.


	2. Outtake #1: Strawberry Fields Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were so many scenes that I wanted to include, but I couldn't make it all gel together in the main story. After some contemplation, I decided to flesh out a few of these, and once I found out that Claudia is alive? kind of alive? might be an evil changeling? (who can know?). Obviously, I had to edit that into one of these extra scenes.
> 
> Thanks go to everyone who encouraged me to start posting these. I love you all.
> 
> This particular bit is an explanation for where Peter was getting his strawberries, and it's set near the beginning of the main Lost Things universe. 
> 
> Content warning: one ambiguous instance of animal death and several obvious instances of Christian references.

Ancient and protected, the Preserve stands, one step out of reality. Layer after layer of magic and sacrifice wards away the worst of the drought in this hidden garden. At one time, the orchard was the smallest part of the Hale legacy. Now, Peter is the only one left to tend to the needs of leaf and root. After these few days of consistent stewardship, the vines are greener; the fruit is brighter.

Every morning, Peter comes, carrying only a green plastic carton and a bird snare. He waits for the blessings of the land.

A flash of drab plumage catches Peter’s eye. The brush rustles and soft pips fill the air as a covey of quail wander nearby. A daring, blue-chested male darts closer to the trap. He calls: _chicago chicago chicago._

A female warbles back. _Chicago._ The bird’s attention wavers. The trap snaps shut, and the covey shrills warnings and flees.

Its wings beat against the trap walls. Peter reaches down, deftly snatching the bird out of confinement. He cups it in his hands, this tiny creature—trembling and vital, defiant to the last. _This is my body: given for you._ Peter snaps its neck. He lays the body in a low, rocky niche, hollowed from years of use and weather. He sets a flat stone in the groove in front of the hollow, securing his offering. _Do this in remembrance._

He walks to the boundary line of apple trees. His carton now overflows with dewy, fresh strawberries—so red they glisten like blood in the morning sun. 

The stone falls away from the empty niche.

Wind whistles through the leaves. Green muscadines drop from their vines. The fragile, overripe skins split open, perfuming the air and attracting lazy bees. Peter eats a strawberry and savors its perfect sweetness, poised on the knife’s edge between readiness and rot. 

It takes more than water to make the crops grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This outtake was unbeta'd, so any mistakes are down to me and my impatience. Thank you for reading!


	3. Outtake #2: What Reaches Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to write a sex scene (any sex scene) for the last few months, but I've been pretty repulsed lately so.... I managed to fold some of the false starts into the main story, but this was my latest attempt at writing the first time Stiles and Peter bang. (You still don't get to see it here bc I am a sham.)
> 
> Once again, references to religion and Christianity. Basically, this entire story is a reference.
> 
> Special thanks to Pibroch, Bones, Alt, and Celeloriel. Your encouragement has meant a lot to me. I hope you enjoy what I've done here.

A single lamp washes the white-grey room in sepia tones. The cozy amber light changes the atmosphere, changes them into protagonists of a romantic drama at the pinnacle of the will-they-won’t-they tension.

Stiles stands beside the bed with its invitingly turned-down covers. He tucks both thumbs into the waistband of his thin blue boxers and shivers. Peter gives him the illusion of privacy from the adjoining bathroom. Like this, he can almost imagine that the running water and scrape of bristles against teeth cover the erratic thump of his heart. Surely the minty fresh toothpaste means that Peter can’t smell Stiles’ chemosignals.

If he pushes down his boxers and waits, naked between the sheets, Peter won’t deny Stiles this intimacy. Not Peter, the one who recognized him in the beginning. _You must be Stiles._ Peter has never rejected him; that’s always been Stiles’ role—playing the sometimes reluctant prey to father, daughter, then father again.

Stiles stands beside the bed. His hands tense, thumbs curling down. He only has to shove them down and over his hips. His thumbs twitch, but he can’t complete the motion. He can’t take the next step when he knows what it will mean for him, for Peter, for everything. Not yet.

Feeling old before his time, Stiles crawls into bed. He turns on his side, facing away from the bathroom door, and closes his eyes.

He refuses to examine the question that plagues him. _When will the time be right?_ He’s approaching the pivotal moment, almost standing at the crossroads of desire and certain danger.

When will he finally give in? _When will the time be right?_ Stiles slits open his eyes and stares at the red numbers on the clock face. 

He doesn’t know.

* * *

Stiles stands beside the bed, shaking with adrenaline and shock.

His mother. _His mother is alive._

With jerky hands and trembling fingers, he flings his clothes away and burrows under the sheet, naked as the day he was born. 

_His mother is alive._

Even if she’s a changeling, can he take her away from his dad a second time? Will she (should she) be destroyed in his attempts to return? If being forgotten is the price, then maybe it’s a price well-paid.  
After all, there’s always Peter.

He lies there, unseeing as Peter finishes his nightly ritual in the bathroom. He doesn’t notice how the bed must dip under Peter’s weight or how the sheets shift over them as Peter settles on his side of the mattress. Stiles only comes back to awareness when a hand, _Peter’s hand_ , grips his shoulder, tugs him closer so he can rest on Peter’s bare chest.

“ _Stiles._ ” The emphasis implies that Peter has repeated himself several times.

For all the sharpness in his voice, Peter shakes him lightly. He is always terribly conscious of his strength, so careful not to hurt Stiles. Not at all like their beginning, with the threats of death or rough treatment, but Stiles hates the softer reality of the present. He doesn’t want this tenderness, not when it leaves him half-destroyed—so ruinous that it becomes a violence. He can’t bear the awful compassion he reads in Peter’s soft touch, not in the face of this new discovery: _His mother is alive_.

There is more wrong (more right) than they first knew, but none of that needs to matter—not when Stiles is ready. He’s naked, in bed with Peter. He knows how this goes; or rather, Stiles knows how this _should_ go.

Peter’s hands should wander, and they do; but when they find the lack of Stiles’ usual sagging waistband, he retreats to the safer territory between Stiles’ shoulder blades.

The bright, sudden bloom of rejection stings more than Stiles expects. He wraps himself around Peter, hitches a leg around one of his hips, pulling them groin-to-groin—until Stiles can feel the first stirrings of Peter’s silent, denied desire.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Me, giving myself to you. Choosing you when no one else would even care you’re forgotten?” Stiles sneers at Peter, speaking ugly not-quite-truths. “Well,” he snarls. “Here I am.”

Still careful, still gentle, Peter pries Stiles off and away from him. He turns Stiles around and clamps his arms down, so Stiles barely has the room to wiggle.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.” Peter adds _sotto voce_ , “Before you say anything else you’ll regret.”

They lie together quietly in the amber light of the lamp. Stiles heart rate evens out. If he begins to feel something that may be shame, then he ignores it. “It was a hard day,” he says to the wall. “I didn’t expect to see her.” 

It’s not an apology.

Yes, his mother is alive, but he can’t let that make him stupid. Alienating Peter now is one of the worst things he can do.

Peter puts his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck. He breathes in once, twice, and then sighs. Stiles can feel the way Peter’s lips curl into a smile against his skin as he murmurs, “When you choose me, it won’t be like this. I can promise you that.” 

Shaken, Stiles hears the unspoken message in his words. _“It will be when there’s nothing else you want more, when you can’t imagine anything better. That’s when I’ll say yes.”_

Stiff as a corpse, in Peter’s arms, Stiles scoffs, “Whatever.”

They both hear the hollow ring, the falsity, in his reply. Peter reaches back and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into still, grey gloom. 

They don’t speak again that night.

* * *

Nothing about this day is interesting or extraordinary. 

Nothing except the way Stiles doesn’t think twice before taking one of Peter’s strawberries. Or how he leans into Peter while they sit on the couch, subconsciously chasing after his touch, his warmth. At dinner, Peter lays his hand on Stiles’ wrist before they eat the meal they’ve prepared together. They don’t say grace. They never do, but Stiles feels blessed all the same, a tingle in his skin at every point of contact.

Today, every breath he draws, every move he makes serves as this wordless cry: _here I am, waiting to be held—waiting to hold you._

At the table, they eat tender scallops covered in buttery sea urchin sauce, nesting on a bed of pasta, but it tastes like dust in Stiles’ mouth. Peter allows him one glass of Moscato d’Asti with their dessert of cherry trifle. The Rainier cherries are golden and sweet, the beauty of summer captured in one single bite. 

Throughout the meal, they talk, but Stiles can’t remember one word to the next. He can barely hear Peter over the clamor of his own pulse, pounding to the rhythm of his yearning; his heart continues its work, beat after beat, if only so Stiles can live to fulfill its purpose.

The coiling wire of tension between them stretches tighter with every interminable minute, or maybe only Stiles can feel it. Maybe he’s the only one who’s suffocating, ready to climb out of his own skin—ready to make his move. Finally, when Peter stands, preparing to clear the dishes from the table, the wire snaps. Stiles grabs Peter’s hand. He takes it in a firm grasp despite the way his clammy fingers slip on Peter’s smooth, dry skin. His fingers squeeze hard, harder than they should, but instead of complaining, Peter flips his hand around and squeezes back.

Stricken, at a sudden loss for words, Stiles stares back. He stares into blue and falls, or maybe he’s only now noticing that he’s fallen.

For the first time, he allows himself to think _it’s always been Peter_ instead of _at least there’s always Peter_. Now, hand-in-hand with him, Stiles feels it—or more likely—Stiles believes the tacit comfort offered in his touch. It says _I’m here. You’re safe._ It’s peace, temporary or not, and Stiles would do so many things to have a steady supply of that feeling.

“Don’t,” Stiles croaks. He wets his lips and tries again, “Just leave the dishes.”

Peter doesn’t speak. The glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes says more than enough.

Stiles shuts his eyes. Is Peter worth it? Is their plan worth the risk? His mom and dad are together and happy. _They must be happy. How can they be anything but?_ Can he bear to be the son who destroys that—all for the sake of memories only he holds? Stiles’ eyes open reflexively at the brush of skin against his mouth. Eagerly, he leans into Peter and is engulfed as the kiss abandons any claims to chastity. 

No one’s ever kissed him like this: closed-mouth and full of devastating knowledge, like Eve might have kissed Adam after eating the fruit. His chest aches with the perfection of it, the perfection that Peter can deliver only after spending months watching and studying and waiting. All for this moment, when Stiles can be honest with himself. 

He wants so much more than one unfairly perfect kiss. 

“Please,” Stiles gasps through the delicate slide of lip on lip, “Please. I want this—I want you.” _I want everything you’ll give me. Everything you’ve promised. I want. And I want. And I want…._ He winds his arms around Peter’s neck and whispers, “Peter, this is me choosing you.”

“I’ll never let you go,” Peter growls. He sounds almost regretful, as though he’s apologizing for a minor inconvenience instead of selfishness of the highest order.

Stiles can’t find it in himself to mind. Isn’t that what he wants—to never be forgotten or left behind, to never be alone again? “I know,” he answers. _Prove it, Peter. I dare you to give me always._

“Then I accept.” 

Inches away from Stiles’ face, he can see the shift in light and color behind Peter’s irises. Slowly, the normal, human blue brightens to vivid neon, and Peter closes the distance, descending slowly enough that Stiles can escape or change his mind. 

Stiles lifts his chin, bumping Peter’s cheek. In welcome, he bares his neck for the wolf, and he waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "here I am, waiting to be held—waiting to hold you" is a paraphrase from "Song to the Siren". There are several versions of this song, but [The Czars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZzHKjUKqLk) did my favorite. (FYI, the instrumental intro is over a minute long.)
> 
> I did a quick once-over for errors, but please let me know if you find something or think I need other/additional tags.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and happy holidays.


	4. Outtake #3: Slowly Fading Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Pibroch and Greenie for taking a look at this before I posted. It's not really beta'd, per se, but I did go over it a few times for obvious errors.
> 
> Continuity notes: This fits in the main story as the first time Stiles slept in the same bed with Peter, a week later, and then... obviously after they started banging. They don't go to Ralph's until after the scene when Stiles got mad at Peter for spying on people.
> 
> Be aware that I used some of the canon characterization of Claudia, so there are references to child abuse, and I address the fact that Stiles has conflicting feelings about her.

Stiles crawls between the sheets, waiting for Peter to finish brushing his teeth and washing his face. He shuts his eyes and breathes. His muscles are so tense they feel on the verge of snapping. Peter has always been the one that got away, and now they’re about to share a bed.

He’s not a very good person. Stiles knows this. Over the years, enough people have reminded him that he’s cruel and unprincipled, untrustworthy. He surrounds himself with people like his dad and Scott and Melissa. He uses Scott’s simple idealism as the moral compass he lacks and avoids anyone too much like himself. 

Or that’s what he did, before werewolves and Hales and Argents touched their lives. What will he do without their living example to show him the way? When all he has is this: a world that’s forgotten him and the constant temptation of all he could be—if he stops trying.

If he closes his eyes, the downward path is so clear.

Peter exits the bathroom in a humid, mint-scented cloud. His hair is soft and messy, clean of product, and he’s wearing sky blue pajamas with darker blue piping. He looks harmless, human. _Like someone’s dad._ It’s an uncomfortable reminder.

“Good night, Stiles.” Peter turns off the lamp. “Sleep well.”

Stiles blinks in the dark. “The couch would have been fine.”

“Why settle for fine when you can have better?” Peter asks without sarcasm. He sounds genuinely curious.

Stiles turns over, facing the red numbers on the clock. “Not everyone’s afraid of roughing it or denial of self.”

Peter sniffs. “That sounds terribly dull and moral. More like Scott than your own opinion. Wake me up if you decide to have an original thought.”

Stiles swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. It’s just another of Peter’s jabs. Another shot in the dark. It doesn’t mean anything, but Peter’s not wrong—not completely. Stiles isn’t moral. He’s pragmatic and selfish. And here he is, choosing expediency again because it feels natural and right—because, unlike denial of self, expediency rewards him with an ally and a comfortable bed. Some people aren’t meant to be heroes, but it doesn’t mean that he’ll turn into Peter. _It doesn’t mean you know me._

“Good night, Peter.”

He sleeps in fitful bursts, tossing and turning until he gives up before false dawn, a few hours before Peter usually disappears for his newspaper and little box of strawberries. Stiles climbs out of bed, throwing back the covers without care for his bedmate, and stumbles off to relieve the pressure in his bladder. 

The dazzling white of the kitchen presses down on his senses, sterile and strange without Peter sitting at the table. Stiles fumbles his way through filling his mug with several shots of espresso, the only function he can use on the modern chrome monstrosity on the counter. In defiance, he sits at Peter’s chair and drinks mug after mug of coffee. He savors each time he reaches the dregs, where a truly disgusting amount of sugar has turned into sludge. The sweet, caffeinated slurry doesn’t make up for his current circumstances, but with its help he won’t need to worry about sleep for a while.

* * *

A week later, Stiles buzzes with caffeine and ill temper. The words in all the books blur together. Sometimes his heart races and pounds so much that it feels strained and sore. He’s so tired that he could cry.

He wants to shut the books, close his eyes, and stop thinking about the Wild Hunt.

He wants to slide into the big bed in the master bedroom and fall asleep listening to the white noise of Peter’s steady breathing.

He wants his old life back, but that’s not possible. Not yet.

Stiles stands with a screech of chair against tile. Who’s left to stop him? _Peter?_. He sneers at the thought. Peter’s more likely to urge him on to greater depravity than to caution.

Here, outside of time and true existence, why shouldn’t he have something nice for once? He can’t think of one good reason to deny himself anymore.

Fully clothed, Stiles steps inside the bedroom. He punches up his pillows and slips under the fluffy comforter. He closes his eyes. 

He falls.

* * *

Sometimes it’s funny how much Stiles had feared himself, Peter, or some dramatic descent into darkness. Now, Stiles allows himself the comfort of sleep and does so without guilt. Flesh-to-flesh, he presses himself to Peter as though he wants to crawl inside, anchoring himself to the only real thing he has left. They curl around each other like puppies despite the heat. Peter warms them like a furnace, sweaty limbs sliding together, until the bright Californian sun peeks through the venetian blinds.

Stiles wakes to Peter’s fingers, tracing invisible lines and patterns across Stiles’ skin, mapping the terrain from one mole to the next.

He sighs as the fingers dig into his back, loosening a knot. “Good morning.” He cracks one eye open to look at the clock. “It’s almost lunch.”

“You needed the sleep.” Peter’s hand drifts lower. He scrapes his nails over one of Stiles’ hipbones in languid passes. There’s a hint of smug laughter in his voice when he says, “I kept you up past your bedtime.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Stiles stretches, arching his back and rocking his hips against Peter’s—more an idle reminder than invitation or request.

“We’re going on a field trip.” Peter pauses to brush a kiss across Stiles’ temple. “You were right,” he murmurs. “I should bring you along to watch them. You know them better, and I could be missing something.”

Stiles bolts upright, excitement fizzling through his veins. “Do you mean it?” he demands, poking Peter’s chest with a bony finger. “I get to see Dad and my friends?” _I get to see Mom._ He shivers.

Peter pulls Stiles to sprawl on top of him. He cups Stiles’ face and stares up, the barest hint of a smile on his face. With all apparent earnesty he asks, “Would I lie to you about this, Stiles?”

* * *

Claudia Stilinski is dead. Long live Claudia Stilinski.

For so long, his mother’s absence has shaped his life. A figure of comfort and terror, his longing for her has always overwhelmed the pain of memory. Knowing she’s alive, seeing her now, soothes Stiles even as it tears open his childhood wounds.

It’s safe to miss the monsters when they’re dead.

With effort, Stiles separates himself from the moment, from the torrent of his emotions, and resolves to examine his resurrected mother with a critical eye. He won’t waste the opportunity that Peter’s given him.

He and Peter casually lurk in the produce section of Ralph’s, watching with singular focus as his parents feel up the avocados. She’s telling his dad that he just has to try them on toast.

The harsh fluorescent lighting doesn’t do her any favors, but she certainly looks exactly like his mother. She lacks any visual signs of being the creeping undead. He can’t play spot the difference with this woman and the one he remembers. There’s no obvious mole or scar that he can point to and know she’s an imposter. 

Small and laughing, she leans against the sheltering figure of her husband, like she does in so many pictures. Her slightly older face is just as mobile as it ever was. As quick to smile as it is to rage—or that’s what Stiles assumes. So far, Claudia Stilinski has only shown happiness as she walks with John and selects beautiful, fresh produce.

She’d always loved the little, domestic moments like shopping and gardening and washing the car. She could have spent all day in the sun, detailing the jeep or his dad’s car. 

Stiles stares at her unabashed, glares if he’s honest. Without looking away from her, he grabs a flat of mangoes and dumps it into the cart, hitting the edge with the box and spilling a few onto the floor.

Peter sighs. “You’re scaring the locals, and, more importantly, bruising the fruit. A little less of the crazy eyes if you please.”

He stiffens in outrage. A wave of heat washes over him. The sudden, angry flush rises up on his face and gives him away. Stiles goes as far as opening his mouth to protest, but, at that moment, Peter pulls him in: hips touching and a deceptively casual hand in Stiles’ back pocket. He struggles against the inexorable force as Peter turns Stiles’ face away from Claudia. Peter smiles at him, soft and tender. He whispers in Stiles’ ear, “Smile, darling. I think you’ve attracted some unwanted attention.”

Stiles’ fingers tense on Peter. He wrings Peter’s wrist like a limp dishrag, or he tries. Still, he dredges up a convincing smile, lets his hands flit down to rest at Peter’s waist, slowly worming their way under the untucked hem of Peter’s soft, green polo. 

“Is she still watching?” Stiles asks, fluttering his lashes coyly. He laughs as though Peter has told him a joke, something sweet—just for them. As though they’re the only two in the world who matter.

His stomach twists. If he tries, Stiles can remember his parents doing this, back before everything changed. He snuggles closer, inappropriate for their location, and Peter chuckles, warm and happy in his ear. 

“What’s she doing now?”

The hand in his back pocket pinches his ass, playful but sharp. Stiles jolts and blushes for a new reason now. He buries his face in Peter’s collar. _We can never come back to this Ralph’s again._

“Your father just asked her if she’s okay. They’re walking away now,” Peter says. “Apparently, they’re having some friends over for dinner, so they’re on a schedule.”

Even from ten yards away, Claudia’s giggle rings loud and clear, breaking the tableau, tension drains from his frame, and Stiles sags against Peter, content to stay close for a moment—afraid to look at his parents’ retreating backs. He doesn’t want to see if they’re recreating a scene from his childhood. He doesn’t think he can bear to see them happy without him.

Stiles shakes his head and exhales, long and slow. Peter’s hands come up to rub his back, thumbs dragging up and down his spine.

“Are you okay, Stiles?” The concern sounds so real, and Stiles will drown in it if he’s not careful.

“Yeah. Just, um. Can we go to a different store?”

“I know it was hard seeing them, but you did so well.” Peter’s voice is steady, honest. The approval in it surrounds him, lifts him up. “You’ll do better next time.”

Stiles steps away then and nods. “You’re right. I will.” Already his mind whirls with plans and encounters, scripting possible futures.

He can’t prove it yet, but that woman is an imposter. She isn’t his mother, and even if she was, he won’t allow her to take his place. Not when he’s spent years trying to fill Claudia Stilinski’s shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Theory of Lost Things is probably my favorite thing that I've written. Not my favorite thing to write (that's magic shop fic), but I love this story and whole universe so much that I had to keep writing bits about it to fill in the blanks.
> 
> Thank you for reading and going on this journey with me. I'd love it if you told me what you thought. :)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://dialmformaledictions.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> **Edited to add: content warning in beginning notes regarding Claudia**


End file.
